


Unconditional

by lactoseintolerantmilkshakeenthusiast



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: That's Not an Exaggeration, You're Welcome, i actually cried while writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 15:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13414521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lactoseintolerantmilkshakeenthusiast/pseuds/lactoseintolerantmilkshakeenthusiast
Summary: Some snippets of Zuko's journey from Iroh's point of view.





	Unconditional

He looked away.

He looked away, but he could still see it. He still felt the heat. He still heard the screams. He still ran to his nephew’s side while the physicians did all they could to save him. He still held his hand, running alongside them as they rushed him to the medical building. He still forced himself to let go when they told him to wait outside the surgical room.

They worked on him all night. Nurses came and went with water and herbs and bloody cloths. Zuko’s screaming eventually turned to moaning, and by dawn had stopped altogether. As soon as he noticed, Iroh stopped a nurse on her way out, and she reassured him that the Prince was still alive.

It was 9:00 am when they let him in. They had shaved around the burn, and the entire left side of his face was bandaged. Iroh sat on the right side of the cot, taking his nephew’s hand and squeezing for a moment. Zuko’s right eye fluttered open, and he looked around slowly before noticing Iroh beside him.

“Uncle,” he breathed, “why… why…”

Iroh cupped Zuko’s cheek, shushing him quietly.

“Rest now, my nephew. You are going to be alright.”

Zuko didn’t answer; he just let his tears flow.

\-------------------------------

Iroh saw it. He acted like he didn’t; like Zuko was just a spoiled, pompous royal whose mood swings were a result of his upbringing. In a way, that was true, but it was also very wrong.

Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation was many things that come along with that title; there were the usual things he felt entitled to, like the respect of a superior despite his youth and inexperience. But selfish? Arrogant? Unkind? No. Never.

He knew exactly what this anger meant. But there wasn’t much he could do without drawing attention to it, or worse, triggering it. So he stayed in the back. He befriended the crew. He made Zuko tea and encouraged him to meditate. He joked. He distracted. He waited for the day when Zuko would say, “You’re right, Uncle, I’m not going to find him. Let’s find somewhere to live.”

But then they actually found him.

\-------------------------------

“I’m sorry, I just nag because… ever since I lost my son…”

“You don’t have to say it, Uncle.”

“I think of you as my own.”

Iroh knew that Zuko was aware of what exactly their relationship was. But, for the sake of himself, he said it out loud. He made it obvious. It didn’t make watching his beloved nephew, who was almost killed just a few weeks prior, sneak into enemy lines by cover of night any less heartbreaking.

But Iroh knew what his place was at this moment. And it was standing beside Admiral Zhao, giving tactical advice and waiting for all of this to be over.  
He didn’t realize they’d be leaving the Northern Water Tribe on a scrap of driftwood. But he was glad that they were leaving on their own.

\-------------------------------

It started with little things. Food. Clothing. Supplies. But then Zuko started returning to their little hideaway with ornate china and expensive pastries. Iroh knew what he was doing and why, but he was afraid of where that mentality might be leading him.

“Zuko, even if you did capture the Avatar, I’m not so sure it would solve our problems. Not now,” he tried to guide him without explicitly addressing it. That’s how Zuko’s mind works; he prefers subtlety, and doesn’t respond to something being thrown in his face over and over again.

But Zuko wasn’t having it.

“Then there is no hope at all.”

That’s what he said. That’s what he actually believed.

Iroh didn’t have time to be shocked; he just had to squash that bug in his nephew’s mind.

“No, Zuko! You must never give in to despair. Allow yourself to slip down that road, and you surrender to your lowest instincts,” he needed to be blunt right now. He knew Zuko didn’t like bluntness--even rejected it most of the time. But it’s what he needed.

“In the darkest times,” Iroh went on, “hope is something you give yourself. That is the meaning of inner strength.”

With that, he let go of Zuko’s arm. He gave him time to think. And when he came to the conclusion that they needed to separate, he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t scared.

He was just happy that he came back.

\-------------------------------

They had both been through much in the last week, but Iroh wasn’t about to let that stop him from teaching Zuko what he believed to be the most valuable technique he knew: lightning redirection. But Zuko was far too zealous for his own good. Iroh had to be blunt once again.

“If you are lucky, you will never have to use this technique at all,” he told him, hoping that would be the end of it.

But Zuko was his father’s son.

“Well if you won’t help me, I’ll find my own lightning.” And with that, he hopped on their ostrich-horse and went full speed towards a large, black cloud.

He swore; he screamed; he paced; he kicked and punched anything that would make a mess. He tried making tea, but all that did was display just how much he was shaking. The calming white noise of the rain lulled him into a false sense of security between each thunderclap, and he grew more and more restless as the night went on.

He eventually gave in and leaned against the wall in a last-ditch attempt at rest. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore his quickened heartbeat, willing it to steady itself. He used up all of his strength to not move when he heard Zuko return. If Iroh wanted to help Zuko, he’d have to pretend he wasn’t worried for him. Pretend he was asleep, and in the morning, calmly ask Zuko if he found the lightning he went out looking for.

But then he felt a weight on his thigh. It was cold, and wet, and quivering--from what, he couldn’t tell. Until he heard sniffling.

Iroh opened his eyes to find Zuko curled in on himself, laying his head in his uncle’s lap, weeping as quietly as he could manage. Timidly, he placed his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, and felt a pang when Zuko reached up and clasped it.

He mumbled something along the lines of “I’m sorry,” and, “… never do it again.”

Iroh squeezed his hand, reassuring him, and without even thinking, began to hum. And to his surprise, Zuko whispered along.

“… fragile, tiny shells; drifting… foam…”

\-------------------------------

“What’s that smell?”

Iroh had been so busy taking care of Zuko during his fever that he’d almost forgotten what his voice sounded like when it wasn’t strained.

“It’s jook,” he answered, adding, “I’m sure you wouldn’t like it.”

He watched as Zuko leaned in and took a deep breath, taking in the scent of the porridge and smiling.

“Actually, it smells delicious.”

Iroh couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What’s more, Zuko grabbed a bowl from the counter and held it to him, saying,

“I’d love a bowl, Uncle!”

Iroh hesitated, but eventually ladled out some jook and put it into the bowl.

“Now that your fever is gone, you seem different somehow,” he said.

“It’s a new day. We’ve got a new apartment, new furniture, and today’s the grand opening of your new tea shop. Things are looking up, Uncle.”

Something in Zuko’s attitude and inflections filled Iroh with a warmth he hadn’t felt for many years. He decided to enjoy it.

\-------------------------------

Iroh awoke in his tent, yawning and stretching as he always did. He sensed someone there, sitting behind him, and knew that it could only be one person.

“Uncle, I know you must have mixed feelings about seeing me. But I want you to know… I am so, so sorry, Uncle.” At this point, his voice started wavering. “I am so sorry and ashamed of what I did. I don’t know how I can ever make it up to you, but I--”

Zuko was interrupted when he was pulled into a tight embrace. Iroh held onto his beloved nephew like his life depended on it, tears streaming down his face, a feeble smile on his face.

“How could you forgive me so easily?” Zuko asked. “I thought you would be furious with me!”

“I was never angry with you,” Iroh said softly. “I was sad, because I was afraid you’d lost your way.”

“I did lose my way,” he admitted. Iroh pulled them apart, resting his hands on Zuko’s shoulders.

“But you found it again. And you did it by yourself.”

Zuko made eye contact with his uncle. They were wide and vulnerable, like the child he still was deep down.

“And I am so happy you found your way here,” he added, bringing Zuko back in for another hug.

“It wasn’t that hard, Uncle,” he said. “You have a pretty strong scent.”

Iroh chuckled, squeezing his nephew and running his hand through his hair. He began to sway a little, whispering,

“Leaves from the vine, falling so slow… Like fragile, tiny shells, drifting in the foam…”

Zuko joined in.

“Little soldier boy, come marching home…”

Iroh leaned back, cupping Zuko’s face in his hands and pressing their foreheads together. Eyes closed, tears falling, they finished the song:

“Brave soldier boy, comes marching home…”

Their eyes fluttered open, and after a short moment, Zuko chuckled. He sat upright and started wiping his eyes. Iroh grabbed a cloth, dipped it into a dish of water, and offered it to him.


End file.
